


Of Lilies and Birthday Wishes

by NoNotHere



Category: Glee
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Coma, Episode: s02e03 Grilled Cheesus, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-27
Packaged: 2019-12-25 07:59:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18257069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoNotHere/pseuds/NoNotHere
Summary: Long ago, I wrote a short story about Kurt's experience when Burt Hummel enters a coma in season 2. I was really moved by that episode, especially by Kurt's emotions and his singing. However, as it was for an English homework assignment, I changed the names and never submitted it to the fandom. I'm here to rectify this 8 years later!





	Of Lilies and Birthday Wishes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece in April 2011 as an English class homework for short stories. I was really moved by the episode where Burt went comatose and wanted to write a short story of what it must have been like for Kurt to go through that and what memories it might have stirred up.  
> I then found this story in my old email inbox 8 years later, re-read it and really wanted to share it with everyone.  
> I hope you like it, I know I certainly felt nostalgic reading it after so long!
> 
> Also, as this was written long ago, I have totally lost my touch and thus was too scared to change anything in it. Nowadays, it's only scientific writings for me!

It was the twelfth of April, with less than ten days till the equinox; when the earth would align perfectly with the sun, and the hours of daylight would become parallel to those of dark. It was a perfect spring day, the sun beamed at the innocent faces of the young, and the clouds made way for the birds to flap their wings. The gentle wind caressed the rosy cheeks, and flirted with the butterflies of color. It was the twelfth of April, and it was Kurt Hummel’s birthday. Kurt didn’t ask much for his birthday, he never asked much for anything really. However, on this particular day, a part of his heart ached, and he felt the need to be greedy, just for one day, just for his birthday. And so after asking his father Burt, he leaped happily up the stairs, and opened his cupboard in preparation for the visit. It was hard to convince Burt to let his son go, he had been holding him back for long enough though. He was just as prepared as Kurt was, which was not very much, I’d tell you.

The engine of the car stilled, and the radio went off in the 87’ Chevy. Burt huffed and took a long look at his son. He stared at him with heavy eyes, and asked, “You sure you want to do this kid?” Kurt gave him a shaky smile and nodded in reply, not trusting his own voice. His nervousness rolled off of him in waves, hitting his father twice as hard. Getting out of the car, they entered through the wrought iron gates.

The scenery was new to Kurt, but not to Burt. Burt had been coming there frequently enough to know the way blindfolded. The trees were scattered around, and the grass was plush under their feet. The aroma of different flowers and roses filled the air, and the birds chirped in the intertwined branches, singing songs of merriment and bliss. They walked hand in hand, supporting one other. One hand held onto the other with as much need as the second, they needed the support; they needed to know that they were together, father and son. I want to visit mom, Kurt had told his father that morning. And here they were, in matching tuxedos. They had arrived.

‘Hey mom,’ he whispered, and knelt on the grass. His outstretched hands laid the bouquet of lilies down with a soft rustle, and then grazed the outline of the tombstone. It read:

‘ _Here lays Elizabeth C. Hummel_

 _Beloved wife and mother_ ’

The afternoon was spent there, with Kurt laying on the grass and Burt leaning against the trunk of a tree, wiping his eyes surreptitiously with his sleeves every now and then. Whispers were not exchanged between mother and son, it was a monologue instead. His words carried no further than the small spot of green below him. He told news, he spoke of stories and he sometimes remained silent, imagining what responses he might have heard a year ago.

 

* * *

 

This time, it wasn’t the same scenery. Everything was different, and his memory had dissolved. The world swirled in grey and blue and pounded into his chest with a forceful push. He staggered backwards but fell to his knees onto the wet floor. The rain was pounding on his arching back, and the thunder that followed the bolts of lightening echoed and re-vibrated off the trees. The air that raced into his lungs was charged, and it came out in heavy and cold pants. Crawling against the wet grass, he reached the tombstone and traced the barely there name of his mother. ‘I lost you, I can’t lose him too,’ he said. Not even the lightening in the thundering skies above could illuminate his eyes. They were sunken, red-rimmed and hollow; his pupils were dark-holes, dead with no glimpse of life, of light. Orbs of glistening liquid formed in his eyes, and they swelled till their weight was not bared anymore; they fell to the ground. They fell un-ceremoniously, un-heard over the rain, shattering his soul bit by bit.

He broke apart and fell into pieces over the grave. ‘I can’t lose him,’ he whispered, ‘I can’t ’. He did nothing wrong, no one made any mistakes, so how had this happened? How did his father end up in an intensive care room with sickening green sheets and blue walls? He wasn’t dumb; he didn’t forget all his classes about the topic in school. He knew the odds of surviving a comma, and he knew how poorly responsive patients were. He regretted all the jokes he had made, his statements of content on how he’d be relieved if he fell in a comma. Was this some cruel joke, an ill prank from the world? Was it a lesson, or was it coincidence that his father fell into this fate?

He didn’t want anything for his birthday this year, just like the year before, and the ones before that. He stopped asking anything for his birthday since the one seven years ago simply because he always knew what he wanted, and so did Burt. But right now, he needed solid belief. He needed, not wanted a hand to hold, one that would apply gentle pressure, to reassure him that the world was fine. He wanted to hold his father’s hand. He tried in the hospital, it was all he did. But that cold hand never squeezed back, those ears never heard the pleas, and those eyes didn’t open.

He cried till the rain washed his eyes closed. Until his breath was shallow, and his voice became hoarse. He repeated three words in the dark of night to the grave until they became a mantra that lulled him to sleep; don’t leave me. He gave himself up to peaceful dreams and sweet reprises, where the sky was cream blue and the clouds spiraled in and out of shape. Where the smell of lilies engulfed the atmosphere and his hands clasped with the gentle ones of both his parents.

Somewhere else far away, in a room illuminated with florescent lights, the world outside was busy. The phones rang and coughs of patients seeped under closed doors. Sneakers squeaked against the waxed floor and a nurse idly stared at the monitor screen in front of her. Everyone was oblivious to the simple twitch of a hand that lay on the green sheets of the hospital bed.

Burt Hummel closed his hand around a warm matter, a loving touch. But when his eyelashes opened with a whisper brushing against his hollow cheeks, when his eyes adjusted to the bright light, he saw nothing. He was holding onto thin air, one that smelled of lilies.

 

**FIN**


End file.
